Chapter Fifty-Six: The Tragedy of Ronghua Village (Part Three)

From Liu Mengshu’s vantage point, as he turned his head, he could just make out the dead-end alley in the distance, illuminated by flickering firelight. There, he saw everything being done to his younger brother.

Liu Mingming was already dead.

Several enemy soldiers had hoisted his body onto their bayonets and were spinning him around in mockery. Others stood by, repeatedly stabbing the small boy’s corpse, each thrust leaving a fresh, gaping wound—accompanied by their devilish laughter. It truly made one question whether this was hell itself.

Liu Mingming’s eyes were still wide open, but the innocent, lively spark he’d shown while playing with Zhenzhen was gone. Instead, his gaze burned with unbridled hatred; he had died with his eyes open, his face twisted in fury.

“Beasts! Monsters!” Zhao Shanshan cursed, her tears never ceasing to fall since the massacre had begun.

Because Liu Mengshu was looking from darkness toward the light, none of the enemy soldiers toying with Liu Mingming’s corpse noticed him. Fu Yang turned his head and seemed to lock eyes with Liu Mengshu for a moment.

A tremor ran through him.

What kind of eyes were those…? There was no trace of life or human emotion left in them—only boundless, eternal hatred.

At last, Liu Mengshu turned away and fled desperately toward the outskirts of the village, vanishing into the pitch-black night.

He had escaped.

All of Ronghua Village was a scene of unspeakable brutality and horror, accompanied by the piercing, agonized screams of its victims. Yet gradually, these sounds grew faint and distant…

The surrounding images began to blur and distort. At last, it was as if a great canvas had been violently torn apart—

In a flash, everything vanished!

There was no bustling Ronghua Village, no wedding celebration for the village chief’s son, no invaders’ massacre…

Only an endless, desolate plain remained, twisted, ghostly trees clawing at the sky, crows shrieking overhead, and the cold moon half-shrouded by thick clouds.

They had returned from the vision to reality.

Such an abrupt contrast left them reeling with discomfort.

There was nothing here at all…

No, there was something!

Fu Yang had barely regained his senses when he noticed—some dozens of meters ahead, a shattered stone stele stood, and atop it sat a dark, human silhouette.

Ahuang and Liu Zhan saw it too. In the dead of night, in such a forsaken place, anyone sitting atop a broken monument could hardly be a friend.

Liu Zhan reacted instantly, raising his arm and firing a shot.

Bang!

The bullet whistled toward the shadow, but there was no reaction.

Ahuang shielded the others, his right hand clutching a talisman between his fingers as he demanded sternly, “State your name—are you man or ghost?”

A long, weary sigh sounded. It was filled with resignation and exhaustion, and in such a setting, it weighed heavily on the heart.

Still, this suggested the figure on the stele was a person, not a specter.

At that moment, the clouds parted to reveal the full, round moon. Gentle moonlight poured over the wasteland, banishing the darkness.

Fu Yang and the others could now clearly see the black figure atop the stele.

He wore a long blue robe, his figure tall and thin, and his face was concealed behind a steel mask shaped like a menacing demon with green skin and fangs. The effect was both mysterious and unsettling.

“It’s you! The one who followed us back at the municipal archives!” Fu Yang shouted, pointing directly at him.

“Yes, it’s me. I didn’t expect you would chase the trail all the way here,” the masked man replied as he rose to his feet.

Standing atop the slanted stele, his blue silk robes fluttered in the night wind, making a rustling sound. Bathed in moonlight, he exuded an eerie, inexplicable beauty.

Fu Yang snapped back, “Don’t act so high and mighty! You’re just someone I already beat—your sleeve is still torn from when you had to flee in panic. Who are you trying to impress here?”

The masked man gave a cold snort. “Ignorant insect. If I hadn’t been inconvenienced at the time, I could have crushed you with a single finger.”

What arrogance!

Fu Yang was about to retort, but Ahuang grabbed his arm, and with his other hand, flung a talisman into the air. It burst into flame, illuminating the area.

The man on the stele did not move. He merely opened his mouth and uttered a single syllable.

At that, Ahuang’s fireball exploded and dissipated three feet in front of him, the orange glow lighting up a wide area.

Fu Yang and the others now saw clearly the enormous, tilted stele beneath the masked man’s feet. Two faintly discernible words were carved into its exposed face.

Ahuang stared intently at the masked man’s hands, his pupils constricting.

“Rong… Hua…”

Zhao Shanshan blanched in shock, whispering, “My god! Ronghua Village! This is… this is…”

“That’s right. The very ground you stand on now was once Ronghua Village, eighty years ago. Now, it is nothing but ruins. Six hundred and fifty-one wronged souls lie beneath your feet.”

At this, the masked man’s tone finally wavered.

Zhao Shanshan covered her mouth in horror.

Fu Yang stared at him in disbelief. “That vision just now… was your doing?!”

He could hardly accept that someone who wasn’t even much better than him in a fight could wield such powerful sorcery.

But this was a misconception on Fu Yang’s part.

In truth, mastery of the mystical arts has little to do with physical strength or martial skill. For example, if Ahuang and Fu Yang were to brawl on the street in broad daylight, Ahuang would probably end up battered and bruised.

Zhao Shanshan frowned, puzzled. “If you’re such a powerful adept, why go to the trouble of showing us such a human tragedy?”

The masked man said nothing.

But Ahuang suddenly spoke up. “Because… he is the sole survivor of Ronghua Village—Liu Mengshu! The Ghost Lord of the Jiangda Forest is his younger brother, Liu Mingming. Am I right?”

His words struck like a thunderclap, leaving the others utterly stunned.

“Ahuang, you’re certain this man is Liu Mengshu? Ronghua Village was destroyed by the invaders eighty years ago—Liu Mengshu would have been at least twenty then. Does that mean…”

Fu Yang had considered the possibility, but the timeline hadn’t seemed to fit.

“There are three thousand Daoist arts, full of endless transformations. While immortality is impossible, some advanced techniques can indeed prolong life by decades, even a century. Look at his right hand—there’s a wound, a chunk of flesh missing.”

At Ahuang’s words, Fu Yang looked closely and, sure enough, saw a deep bite mark on the back of the masked man’s right hand.